


Day Eight: Companion

by dalektabledesires



Series: Drabble A Day [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Apparently all I can write is angst, Can be read as stand alone, Drabble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-19
Updated: 2012-07-19
Packaged: 2017-11-10 06:54:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/463455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dalektabledesires/pseuds/dalektabledesires
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not my characters and I don't make money from this. Also, I'm super exhausted and fear there may be loads of mistakes. If so, my apologies right now!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Day Eight: Companion

_I don't love you, but I always will..._

 

The roses were yellow today, golden like the sun that had surprised London this afternoon, peaking through inky clouds, winking into existence suddenly. The color choice was new, because even though he could buy a dozen colors from a street vendor, John had always gotten red roses. Red, like the sticky sweet apple that had had the words _I O U_ carved into it. Red, like the fury that had covered his vision when he thought Mrs. Hudson was in danger. Red, like the bright blood that had trickled down angled cheek bones and stained a soft blue scarf. For fifty-two years, the roses had been red, a reminder of who John Watson had lost that day Sherlock Holmes had leapt from a building. They were a bright disturbance on the grave, contrasting sharply with the black headstone, and John liked to think that Sherlock would have liked that, would have liked how, even in death, he stood out from those around him.

 

But today, today the roses were yellow. Yellow, like the stinging sands of Afghanistan. Yellow, like his favorite tea mug with a chip in it, the one he refused to bin because it had been Sherlock who had cracked it. Yellow, like John's soft crop of hair used to be. Yellow, because it would be the last time John would be coming to this grave.

 

For fifty-two years, John had been coming to this grave, trying to make his peace, and for fifty-two years that peace had eluded him. Today would be the day he found it. Slumping against the grave ungraciously, John tilted his head against the headstone and let out an unsteady breath. He smiled slightly, finding this ironic but oddly appropriate. For many years, those around him expected him to commit suicide, some sort of poetic nonsense so that he could join Sherlock, and though he may have been depressed during that time, John Watson was not a man to take his life. No, he had struggled through his grief, come out the other side of it, and kept on fighting. Life was never really the same after, though. Colors weren't as bright, and sounds weren't as sweet. He still could not to this day stand the sound of a violin, any sharp note striking horror in his heart. He had avoided symphonies like the plague. Food didn't taste as good, either. Maybe it was because he finally had had time to sit and eat it, had never had to rush from a restaurant in a moment's notice and leave a steaming plate sitting on a table. So everything had been dimmed for the fifty-two years, and it took him a shameful amount of time to realize why.

 

Ironically, the only reason he even did was because he had happened upon Stamford in the park one day and the man, bent on talking, had gotten John to sit down. Then he had told John the most extraordinary story of a poor dog who had lost everything that meant anything to him and spent his life sadly repeating his actions, searching for someone he would never see again, and hadn't that just been John Watson to a T.

 

The realization hadn't changed his behavior though. He had continued going to the cemetary, had kept on turning his head sharply whenever a tall, lithe figure in black bounded around a corner. Even if his mind knew it was impossible, his heart always hoped for the miracle, and in small ways, John had begun to feel more and more like that dog. A bit lost and a lot sad, but also terriby determined and stoic, because that was what love did to you, and losing your love, your companion, be they a platonic or romantic love, was about the most heart breaking and earth shattering experience you could have. You didn't recover from that. You were always a slightly broken thing after, and people admired you for your loyalty and dedication. They just didn't understand that there was no other choice: you loved them, _you loved them_.

 

John huffed out a breath. The sun was gloriously warm, caressing his skin through his jumper, a terrible red print one he had chosen specifically because of its hideousness. His hands were lying loose in his lap. Pepper, his dog, the one he had gotten after Achilles, who had come after Marquette, who had come after Gladstone, gently nudged him with her nose. She was old too, her bones rickety. He lifted a hand and rubbed her head softly. She sighed contentedly. John smiled and shut his eyes. 

 

Master and dog sat like that, in the sunshine, until there wasn't sunshine anymore, and when they were still there the next day, when a passerby happened to notice the stiff and unmoving bodies, one thing was for certain, John had finally known peace again.

**Author's Note:**

> I had a really hard time with this drabble topic and I really do not like this story. I am so sorry to anyone who actually kind of follows us and is reading these prompts. This is just weird. I honestly didn't want to post it but I also didn't want to skip a drabble day. I promise I will try to do better tomorrow!  
> P.S. This is the [dog](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hachik%C5%8D) mentioned in the fic.  
> P.P.S. The song lyric is from "Poison & Wine" by The Civil Wars


End file.
